


The Damsel and the Drake

by Shadaras



Category: Fairy Tales & Related Fandoms, Original Work
Genre: F/M, Flying, Getting Together, POV Second Person, Size Difference, Wing Kink, based on Beauty and the Beast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:22:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26196331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadaras/pseuds/Shadaras
Summary: Your name is Myrtle, and your father made a deal for your family's protection. Of course it comes back to you and what burdens you must carry.You just hope the monster in the castle won't be too monstrous to you.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20
Collections: Short August Medieval Exchange 2020





	The Damsel and the Drake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stefanyeah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stefanyeah/gifts).



You walk into the castle because you have no choice. It is the only way to keep your family safe and fed, and you cannot begrudge your father’s choice to sacrifice one child for the sake of the whole family. You might begrudge him picking _you_ , but you are the eldest daughter: It has always been your burden to shoulder.

The monster who lives in the castle is dangerous, but the grounds are beautiful. Towers glittering with engraved brass and studded with great arching windows, a garden full of lush roses sweet enough to smell as soon as you enter the gate, old trees heavy with fruit so large your mouth waters at the sight, and no path to guide your feet to the castle’s door. The ground is covered with clover and moss, soft and strange after many years clambering through brambles and branches and broken rocks.

When you reach the door it swings silently open. Inside it is dark, but you step through confidently; the grounds were sun-lit and bright, and you were invited. But once you enter, you hesitate. The door has closed behind you, and there is no light in the grand entry.

You call, “Hello?” into the darkness, and see the monster’s eyes open.

They are golden, as fire is golden, and dangerous as fire is dangerous. You freeze, entranced and terrified, as lanterns bloom into light across the walls and you see the monster for the first time.

He is smaller than you expected, yet you know he would tower two heads above you. Burnished blue scales outline his naked curves, and wings arch out from his shoulders in a way that makes you think of church windows; the light through the robin’s-egg membranes is eerie blue and haunting. His tail is tipped with a steel-bright head that you are fairly certain is simply part of his body, because his claws and teeth are the same color as he smiles and steps towards you.

“Welcome,” he says, and his voice hits you like a waterfall: Beautiful, powerful, and potentially dangerous. “You may call me Drake.”

You curtsey, because there isn’t anything else you can do. “My name is Myrtle, my lord.” It’s automatic. You can’t hold back the title, even as you see his eyes narrow in reaction. “I am honored to be here.”

He snorts, and tiny puffs of smoke leave his nostrils. “You’re to be my companion,” he says as if you hadn’t spoken at all. “Come. Let me show you my castle.”

Drake strides past you, claws clicking on the bare stone floor, and you rise to discover that the crown of your head barely reaches his pectorals. He’s large, and lithe, and the light caresses him in a way that draws your eyes. Drake may be a monster, you think as you follow him, but you are grateful that he is easy on your eyes.

The castle’s gorgeous, when it’s lit—you’re certain he can see in the dark, and only remembers to set lanterns alight for your benefit. It’s full of twisting stairs that Drake doesn’t use, preferring to leap out a window and spread those stained-glass wings to their full beautiful extent and carry himself to an upper floor.

(Should those wings be beautiful? You know you would be terrified if they spread open as he swooped upon you, but in the midday sun they glisten and you want to know if they’re cold as glass or soft as a kitten’s fur.)

You, alas, need to take every single step. You’re out of breath by the time he throws open yet another intricately carved door—each one is different; you know you’ll need to memorize them in time but right now you’re too busy remembering how to breathe—and says, “And these are my chambers.”

Despite your struggling lungs, you stare into it and feel like your breath has been taken away once more by the luxurious surroundings. A large hammock filled with furs. Mirrors on multiple walls. A high ceiling. It’s fit for a prince at least, and you wonder, finally, why Drake is here, and where the castle came from, and what your role is supposed to be. None of the places he has shown you have been named as yours; they are all his.

Maybe you belong to him, too.

It’s not as worrying as you would have thought when you first entered; he has yet to touch you, and he barely seems to notice that you’re there. So you lean against a wall, steady yourself in body and heart, and ask, “My lord, where am I to stay? What are my duties as your—” you pause, for breath and to find the right word “—your companion?”

He turns and looks at you, those fiery eyes almost painful to look at and yet you hold his gaze because you’re afraid of what might happen if you do not. “Little Myrtle,” he says, after an amount of time long enough for your heart to almost settle, “you are here to accompany me. What’s mine is yours. This, too, is your chamber.”

You think about the hundreds of stairs you needed to climb, about how the kitchens he off-handedly pointed out were on the ground floor a dizzying distance away, and say, “No.”

“ _No?_ ” Fire wreaths his face, and his wings mantle around his shoulders as he advances. You can’t retreat; there’s nothing but a wall and a long drop down the stairs. “You _dare_ refuse my hospitality, _peasant_?”

Your voice is barely a squeak, but you manage to say, “Your rooms are not meant for one without wings, my lord.”

He leans down, and very gently tilts your head up with one painfully sharp claw. “You will stay with me, little Myrtle, even if I have to carry you up and down the stairs myself.”

“Oh.” You try not to fall, not to impale yourself on his claw, but your knees are weak. “Would you? That sounds nice.” It’s partly mindless babble and partly— You _do_ want to know what it’s like to fly, and to feel his strong arms holding you.

Drake crouches down, and you think the way he’s looking at you is confusion. “Was that not a threat?”

You laugh. If it’s a bit hysterical, you think you’re allowed. “My lord,” you say, letting yourself slide down the wall to sit on the floor, “I would be honored if you’d carry me back down to the kitchen. It has been a long morning, and I am hungry.”

He’s definitely confused, as he stares silently at you. But then he says, “Very well,” and kneels beside you. Delicately, he scoops you off the floor, and you lean into his warmth. He’s smooth, even with the scales, and far warmer than you thought. It’s delightful, and you’re curious now what it would be like to feel his body with fewer layers between your bodies. As he stands, you slide a hand up his chest and around his neck—to steady yourself, but also because you want to know how Drake will react.

He shudders, but his arms are steady and genteel, not grasping any harder than he must, nor touching you in ungentlemanly ways. You smile at him, and you’re sure your cheeks are flushed as you say, “Please, my lord, I’d like to fly.”

“Very well,” he says, voice soft and wondering. “As you wish.”

Drake spreads his wings as he jumps out the window, and you laugh as the wind catches you and holds you far above the ground and the orchard that had brought such trouble to your family. You tighten your grip on Drake’s neck, and dare to slide your other hand over his (broad, delicately scaled, overwhelmingly strong) fingers as you say, “This is amazing.”

The wind rips your words away, but he still hears them. His voice rumbles through his chest and into yours as he says, “Yes.” His head tilts, and you look up to meet the warmth of his eyes as he says, “I think we’ll do very well together.”

“Me too,” you say, and the clouds whirl above your heads as he keeps rising higher and higher, just like your heart growing light with wonder and the first blossoms of love.


End file.
